


Palaver

by bodysnatch3r



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/pseuds/bodysnatch3r
Summary: Before the war truly begins, John Farson sends word to Steven Deschain, dinh of Gilead, that he wishes to palaver. Hoping to stop Farson's disastrous rebellion before it wreaks any more chaos, Steven agrees.Set right before the events of Wizard and Glass.





	

“He’ll eat thee alive. Farson’ll eat thee alive.”

Steven looks up from the gunna he’s packing. The figure in the doorway to his chamber, the figure that is quiet, one hand against the doorframe, her hair pulled back, smaller braids to make a larger one that’s thrown over her shoulder. 

There is little kindness in the expression that he gifts to Gabrielle.

“Did I not tell thee I no longer wished to see thee in my chambers?”

She stares at him, for a few moments. Then she dips her head, “Aye.” shaken from her throat like rattling marbles. 

“Nor do I wish for thee’s advice. Not on this matter. Not on any other matter.”

 _Not anymore_.

If he’d allow himself to, he’d notice how she’s almost clinging to the wood. He’d notice, if he wanted to– but pride is a much easier coat to wear, if to remove it would mean facing one’s _mistakes_. So he doesn’t notice anything at all, except for the weight of the sins he’s seen her carry on her shoulders.

“I cry your pardon, Steve. ‘Tis just–”

He finishes clasping his satchel with a quick, sharp movement, still staring at her, still frowning, and the sound of it hitting the ground makes her silent. Then he picks it up, and slings it over his shoulder.

“Thee’s presence is not _welcome here._ ” he cuts her off. She flinches and then inhales. He walks up to the door where she happens to be standing.

“Steven–”

“Nay. ‘Tis my decision to go to Cressia, and thee has _long_ forfeit the right to dispute it. Now move. I must leave.”

Steven, Steven, _Steven_ , he’s a mad raging dog. Steven, he’ll never let you leave alive. Steven, _Steven_ , if thee knew what I knew, Steven, the things the wizard’s told me–

Proud fool. _Proud fucking fool_.

She looks up and stares him down, her eyes harsh for a moment in the light. If Steven notices, she knows only because his jaw clenches. Then she steps aside, and lets him pass. 

* * *

 

Robert snaps his pocket watch closed with a flourish, and smiles at Steven from the height of his horse. Steven frowns at him, and Robert’s smile does not flinch.

“Thee’s late.” Allgood comments. “Five whole minutes.”

“Perceptive, as always,” is Steven’s response, as he eases himself onto the horse that’s already been saddled for him. “I was held back.”

“Held back?” Christopher asks. Steven simply glares at him, and Chris knows not to ask any other questions. He turns his horse and runs a hand along her neck when she whinnies, “Now girl. Don’t start whining so early. We’ve got a long way to go.”

Robert chuckles, too, and clutches the reins of his own horse. “Onwards, then, to Cressia.”

“All set, Steven?” Chris asks. Steven glances behind his shoulder, if only because there’s a _sensation_ – at the window he sees Gabrielle, hand pressed to the glass. Behind her, the shadow of Marten Broadcloak, who lays a hand on her shoulder.

Gabrielle lowers her hand from the glass. Steven scowls, and then turns back to his ka-tet. There’re a few other slingers with them, four more, of course, the Affiliation isn’t mad enough to send the dinh of Gilead and his left and right hand without any protection _at all_ , but Steven knows it will be the Tet of the Gun that will do most of the talking, that is _expected_ to do most of the talking, whatever talking there may be had.

“Aye. All set. To Cressia.”

And with that he spurs his horse forward, and Chris and Robert fall into place next to him (Robert glances behind his shoulder one last time, and Louise is standing at the end of the courtyard, Louise wrapped in her shawl, Louise who does not wave as he leaves).

* * *

 

Chris is the one who sees the bodies hanging from the tree first, half a mile out of town. Three men, from the looks of it, strung high by their feet, their bloodied muscles glistening in the sunlight. There’s no skin left on their bones.

A sign, crudely painted, hangs from one of them, the one in the middle: **THIS BE WHAT HAPPENS TO AFFILIATION PIGS.**

“Gan preserve us,” Chris murmurs.

“Well, if it’s _friendly_  negotiations Farson’s looking for, he’s a bit confused on how to obtain them.” Robert quips. His jaw works beneath his skin as he clenches it: there’s not a ghost of a smile while he speaks. Steven, in the meantime, has hopped off of his saddle. He hides his guns in his satchel, and then glances at the rest of those with him: “Do the same,” he orders, “ _now_.” and they do, and he climbs back onto his horse.

“We’ve got trouble in spades already.” Steven says, his eyes stormy enough to be unreadable. They move forward silently, solemn, and shaken. A raven caws behind them, pecks at the eyes the corpse that’s rotted the least.

As they pass, the townspeople either stand and glare or simply huff by, their coats trailing behind them. 

He suspects many of them know who they are. Guns out in the open or no, the fame of the Deschain trails before him, and so does that of his right and left hand. That Sheridan, seat of the Barony of Cressia, reserve for them a less than warm welcome is not a surprise.

“Eyes sharp, sais,” Robert Allgood says, making eye contact with an old man who’s pulling a cart. The old man spits on the ground by the feet of Robert’s horse, and Robert nods at him before looking back in front of him.

“Well, good morning to thee too,” he comments, eyebrows raised and lips drawn tight. He glances at Chris, who just shrugs. In between them, Steven gives the man’s antics little notice.

“Reception’s a bit lacking, my friend,” Robert continues. Steven glares at him and then back at the road. “I don’t need reception.”

“Why, does the dinh of Gilead not want fanfa–”

“ _Quiet_.”

“As if they didn’t already know who we are, Steven. These poor souls probably haven’t seen a horse in weeks, and ‘tis not hard to–”

“If thee doesn’t want us to end up like our welcoming gift, Robert, thee’ll keep bloody _quiet_ , at least until we reach Farson.” Steven snaps, turning his head to look at him. Robert’s face falls. He furrows his brow. 

“Aye, dinh-sai.”

They stop their horses at the inn, the only inn there is, the inn the name of which they’d been given in Farson’s message. _The Dixie Pig_ , it’s called, the rusty old faded sign tells them. Chris stares at it as it creaks in the wind.

“Farson’s instructions were clear,” Steven says. His voice is still low enough so that only those around him can hear, “Just me, sai Allgood and sai Johns inside.”

“Dinh-sai–”

He cuts Jane, the youngest of the four slingers that came with them, off with a curt gesture of his hand, and then shakes his head at her. 

“Nay, sai Cannary. We will do this as instructed, or we might as well skin ourselves and save Farson the trouble. Thee, sai Williams and sai Barnaby will wait outside.”

“And what about me?”

He looks at Isolda McVries after she’s spoken and then says, “Keep the horses at the ready.” 

Then he takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair, fixes his hat back on his head and smoothes out his coat. He grabs his weapons from his gunna, holsters them back to his side.

“Thee knows they’ll probably take them from us, yes?” Chris says, as he’s putting his own guns back on.

Steven nods. “Aye. But as our friend sai Allgood here has _undoubtedly_ taught thee, sai Johns– ‘tis always good to make an entrance.”

And with that he’s opening the doors of the inn, one hand on each, and with that he swallows and begs his heart to not quiver. 

Up until now, at least in matters of the gun, it never has.

* * *

There is dead silence when they step inside, Steven in the middle, Robert to his right, Chris to his left. Dead silence, and the creaking of the wind, of chairs as people move to see the newcomers.

Steven feels every single eye rest on him, on the guns he is holding, on his steely blue eyes, on his hands that for now are simply at his sides. Him and his tet stand in the doorway.

“Mighty brave of thee to come this far, dinh-sai,” a woman at the counter says. Steven stares her down across the room. She stands, elegant, and walks towards the three of them. She knows him, and it is no surprise.

“And who may thee be?” Steven asks, his expression relentless in its coldness, narrowing his eyes.

“I be his _Spider_. And I be the one to take thee to him.”

She stands shorter than him, but not by much, and Steven knows he is staring down into the eyes of a warrior as cruel as she is sly. Steven does not think it worth to hide his distaste at the sigul tattooed on her throat. An eye, crimson drawn, dripping red.

“Very well, Lady Spider. Take us to the Good Man.”

She smirks.

“Weapons first, sai Deschain. He’s not a fool.”

“And neither are we,” Steven says, and then unholsters his guns. He hands them to her. When he turns, both Chris and Robert hesitate– but the glance he gives them is more than enough. Robert licks his lips and sighs.

 _I have children to come home to, sai_ , he thinks, but it’s a fleeting thought. _We all do_. Chris simply complies with an expression that’s one of definite frustration. Spider hands their guns to a man standing behind her.

“Very well. With me.”

She leads them up the stairs, and to reach the stares they have to cross the room, and to cross the room they have to cross the sea of people currently in the bar. Many of them carry a symbol of a red eye, either tattooed on them or on their clothes. Many look at the three gunslingers as if they’re ready to kill them: Steven does not doubt they are. He feels the comforting weight of Christopher and Robert’s footsteps behind him, both walking to their own rhythm.

Then they turn a corner on the second floor, then there’s a hallway and a door at the end of it.

“Down there, ‘slingers,” Spider says. She stands back as they walk in front of her. She gives them a last grin, dripping venom at the edges, and then disappears back down the stairs.

They’re on their won, the lamps on either side of the hall flickering, buzzing with electricity.

“Well, I’m going to assume that if they wanted to kill us, by now they’d already had.”

“Yes. Insightful as always, Robert.” 

“Now, sai Johns–”

“Quiet, for your father’s sake. Now’s not the time for fucking jesting. Keep canda at all times.”

“Aye, gunslingers with no guns! We’ll leave quite the tail behind.”

“Robert, for _fuck’s sake_.” and Robert has to stop his quipping when he hears just how sharp Steven’s voice sounds. Satisfying silence reached, the Deschain inhales, exhales and then cracks all his knuckles.

“Very well. Let us not forget our fathers’ faces.”

And with that the three start walking down the narrow hall.

They reach the door.

It takes Steven a good ten seconds to decide to knock. This is it, he thinks, not with some apprehension. This is the moment where he will sit in a chair and stare down the man who’s said he wants his head on a pike, who’s said he wants to raze gilded Gilead of the white towers to the ground, the man who’s been making his life a fucking misery for the past year or so, the man who’s been a veritable challenge.

John Farson stage robber, Affiliation-hater and man and voice of the people, liberator of All-World, if one, of course, were to hear him speak of himself. _Baby-killer_ , some other forces have him pinned as. Mother-raper.

Given the lovely welcome gift they’ve been given, Steven Deschain is more inclined to believe the latter. 

He gives the men beside him a curt nod. And then his knuckles rap, three times, against the door.

There is a long, drawn out pause, the length of a minute. The length of a breath and the moments it takes for a man to die.

Then, from the inside: “Come in.”

Steven closes his eyes, opens them again, and then opens the door.

The man sits behind an oakwood desk, hands clasped in front of him– only that when he sees them enter, he opens them wide, and his face splits into a grin. Two men sit at either side of him. One large, shoulders wide, eyes that burn like flames and death. The other thinner but no less imposing, his cloak dark, his eyes intelligent and cruel.

“Welcome, welcome!” Farson exclaims, and does not stand to greet them, “Welcome, warriors of the Affiliation!”

Steven takes off his hat as he enters, and so do the other too. John Farson, the Good Man, chuckles.

“Of course. He does one thing, and quickly the other two must follow.”

Steven has not yet said a word, despite John Farson’s expecting expression. The Good Man then nods at his lack of response, as if it’s all been planned, as if he knew Steven would do just this, and gestures at the three chairs in front of his desk.

“But please, do sit. May I offer you a drink?”

Steven sighs and sits first. Robert second, Chris third. The chairs squeak when they move them, and creak as the three of them sit.

“I apologise for my Spider’s gruff manners,” Farson continues, as he pours four glasses of amber whiskey and places three of them in front of his guests, keeps one for himself, “but, as I am certain thee all know well, these be dangerous times. One’s never too cautious.”

“Were the men thee’s skinned as greeting for us not cautious enough, then?”

Farson’s hand hovers by the bottle as he puts the cap back on it, a heavy, glass thing that’s intricately carved. For a moment he stares at the amber liquid inside it. Then his eyes are back on Steven, and his smile’s not faltered once.

“Precisely, sai Deschain,” and he takes a sip of his own drink, raises both eyebrows.

“Now, before we begin, allow me to introduce to thee my men.”

He turns towards the one to his left, the one with a warrior’s eyes and a killer’s hands.

“May I present thee Warrior General Edoacer Grissom, of the Troitan tribes.”

The man neither curtsies or nods. He simply dips his head, and Farson turns to the taller one standing to his right.

“And here we have Sai Rudin Filaro, the Dweller in Darkness. My spymaster.”

This one, oh this one _does_  smile, and this one does extend a hand to Steven Deschain. There is a spark of hilarity in his eyes that Robert Allgood notices and that Robert Allgood cannot place.

“A pleasure, sais,” he says, after he’s shaken Steven’s hand.

John Farson gestures first at Grissom, then at Filaro, and says, “To the left, and the right of the Good Man, respectively.”

When he sees how all three of the man in front of him stare at him, both surprised and quizzical, he lets out a single bark of laughter.

“Oh, we’re fond of parallels here, so we are. Makes all of it sound that much more _ominous_.”

Farson fixes the lapels of his coat and opens his hands again, a welcoming, elegant gesture. “Now. To business.”

“To business indeed,” Steven replies, and gives Farson pause as he’s taking a drag from his cigarette. The man glances at him with surprise: it is impossible to tell whether genuine or mock, but all three gunslingers suspect the latter.

“Ah. So he _does_  speak more than one sentence per conversation.”

Steven licks his lips and smirks back. Then he swallows and the smile falls, and he’s clenching his jaw all over again. Farson leans back in his chair.

“Very well. I said we’d palaver, therefore let us palaver. Make your offer, Steven Deschain, and let us see if it is profitable for the both of us.”

“I believe, sai Farson, that the one who should be accepting bargains is me.”

A pause. Farson looks at Steven Deschain with eyes that flicker and dance across his face.

“Why yes, how silly of me. Unfortunately, though, thee’s not the one with three Baronies already on his side, and two more ready to defect.”

The temperature plummets, sudden, and hits the floor with the crack of thunder splitting Steven’s expression in two. It is momentary: then the dinh covers for the man, and his shock is erased quick enough. But Farson notices.

Oh, damn the man, he notices delah.

“Had thee’s spies not alerted you to that? Oh. Sloppy _sloppy_ , Steven.”

“Watch your tongue, mag-” Chris Johns snarls, and Steven’s hand quickly grips his arm. Farson watches the brief interaction.

“Or _what_ , sai Johns?” he asks the man, smile as shining as ever.

“My offer first, John Farson,” Steven snaps, and scowls at his ka-mate. Chris does not break his gaze until it is Deschain that does so, and he looks back at Farson. Farson twirls his finger, _go on_ , he says. Robert stares at the back of Steven’s head, and his mind is _racing_  to remember whether Steven had made any talk of counteroffering _anything_  to the Good Man, either while on the trail or beforehand, and– 

He licks his lips and lets his gaze wander. What he finds is Filaro staring at him, the small smirk still dancing behind his eyes. Robert narrows his eyes in reply. 

“Very well. Let us hear it.”

Steven sighs and swallows.

“We leave thee control of the Baronies thee’s already gotten.”

Robert clenches his fist. _Steven, Steven don’t you fucking gamble_. 

“In return, thee ceases with any and all pretences of rebellion. Fair and square. Thee gets to keep the land, and we forget all about this.”

Christopher closes his eyes momentarily, and then presses a hand to his mouth once they’re open again. He scratches his stubbly chin, and prays Steven knows what he’s doing.

Five Baronies. Five _entire_  Baronies.

John Farson stares at Steven Deschain, eyebrows raised, and then begins _laughing_. He throws his head back, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. It is a strangling, desolate sound, the sound chickens make when they’re being killed for meat and feathers.

Then the laugh stops. Then Farson wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and shakes his head.

“I believe thee’s misunderstood the nature of this palaver, my dear sai Deschain. My chips are of quite the different nature, as it is.” He pauses, gives Steven a glance, and then clears his throat.

“I want thee to abdicate. Disband the Gunslingers. Hand me the Sigul of Eld. Do not defend Gilead when I close in upon her. Do that, and I will grant thee the decency of killing yourself and all of yours. If not, death by  _skinning_ will be the least of thee’s worries.”

Steven listens in absolute silence, face not quivering an inch.

And then Chris and Robert stare in utter confused terror as Steven Deschain, the sullen, quiet, serious Dinh of Gilead, throws his head back and begins to laugh. He laughs loudly and without remorse, a mirror of sai Farson’s only moments before.

“ _Abdicate_ , my good sai?”

Farson’s smile, that perfect gilded mask, falls for good. He clenches his jaw: his cigarette trembles in between his teeth.

“John Farson, if thee thinks thee can convince me to abdicate, then thee’s the one who’s misunderstood. Misunderstood delah.”

“Gilead _will_  burn, dinh-sai. The matter is whether she’ll burn with all of her people in it, or with all of them already mercifully dead.”

Steven leans forward, his voice low, the light in his eyes dancing with derisive hatred.

“Now, why should I trust that the man who’s said he will not rest until my head’s upon his mantlepiece will ever show _mercy_? Who’s to say I won’t give up my title, and then thee’ll tear apart my family nonetheless?”

John Farson’s smile snakes back across his features, dangerous and deadly and unpredictable, and he pulls back, “Why, sai, I thought thee’s family was already doing so to itself, all on its own. How does sweet Gabby fare? They’ve told me she’s grown silent and withdrawn.” 

Steven’s smile vanishes entirely. He withdraws from leaning forward, and Farson winks at him.

“Well then. What shall it be, Steven? Humiliation or death?”

“Thee’s misunderstood the nature of the Line of Eld, sai Farson. We do not bargain with dogs.”

Robert stares at the corner of the desk. _Steven. For fuck’s sake._

Farson dips his head, expression bordering on comical admiration.

“Are those to be thee’s final words?”

“Aye.”

“A foolish move. Thee’s pride shall be thee’s downfall. I’ll enjoy desecrating yon Sacred Halls and having my men rape your daughters.”

“Thee’ll do nothing of the sort. Ever.”

“The tide cannot be stopped, dinh-sai. Especially a tide of death.”

“As long as there is a single Gunslinger left standing, your fucking tide can and will be stopped.”

“If such a tale makes thee sleep better at night, Steven Deschain, then all the better for thee. Your time is over. There is no stopping this war.”

“Then let it come, and let us see who shall be the last one standing.”

Farson falls quiet. He stares at his own desk, fingers of one hand pressing against those of the other, and then blinks a few times. Then he looks back at the gunslingers in front of him.

“Very well. I’d say ‘till be a pity, but to be honest, I wish nothing more than to gut thee. You may go.”

Steven doesn’t waste time, and he’s already standing. The drink inside his glass of untouched whiskey sloshes slightly when he pushes against the desk to move his chair back. His ka-mates do the same, and he makes for the door without a further word.

“Sai?” Farson calls right before he’s about to open it. Steven glances across the room again. Farson’s eyes drill into his. Oh, he is not smiling right now.

He is not smiling at all.

He brings a loosely clenched fist to his forehead.

“Long days and pleasant nights, defenders of the White.”

Steven replies nothing at all. Out in the hallway, he breathes shakily through his nose. Out in the hallway, he feels the weight of the world make his bones ache.

“Let’s go,” he snaps to Chris and Bob, “before he sets his men upon us.”

* * *

Jane’s the first to greet them, as they come out of the inn while strapping their guns to their hips again.

“How did it go?” she asks.

“Not now,” Steven quickly replies. He nods at Isolda as she hands him his horse, “On the horses. Fast.”

“What’s going on, sai?” Alex Williams asks as he hauls himself onto his bay. Steven’s already on his horse, glancing around to the windows around them.

“There is no way in Hell they’ll ever let us leave alive.”

And then the first bullet, shot from somewhere above them, hits the ground next to his horse. The animal spooks, Steven curses, and then he’s digging his heels in the beast’s flanks, pulling the reins to get it back on track.

“Go! Go, go go for thee fathers’ and mothers’ sakes!” he’s yelling over his shoulder, unholstering his irons as he speaks. Robert’s already aiming for the shooter– he can see the glint of their rifle in the roof directly opposite the Dixie Pig. Either he’s missed or there’s more than one, because a second bullet flies right past his head.

“Damnation!” Chris exclaims, before turning almost completely on his saddle as his horse’s bounding after Steven’s, both hands holding a gun in each. He fires one and then the other: a man topples down the roof, screaming.

“One down!” Burning Chris exclaims triumphantly, and then Jane suddenly falls back, into the dirt, into the dust, shot in between the eyes.

“No!” Isolda calls and turns her horse, but Steven’s bellowing, “No stopping! None! One stops, they’re dead!” and he’s aiming Eld’s guns at the roof to his left, and there’s a scream of pain, “ISOLDA, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Robert calls to his niece’s wife. She gives Jane’s body in the dirt one last terrified, pained glance, and then is back galloping next to the remaining gunslingers.

Robert barks out laughter when his bullet hits the third shooter in the throat, and then Steven sees him curse and lurch forward on his horse. Miraculously, he does not lose his grip on his revolver, but red blossoms on his left shoulder like a wave.

“Robert!”

“All good, Steven– ‘tis but a scratch!” he calls to his friend, endorphins hitting his system and bursting past his teeth in a hysterical laugh, “Oh, but now I’m _furious_  indeed!” and he aims for the person that shot him, and he misses, but Steven does not.

“Let’s go!” Deschain calls, his horse bounding past the three bodies that were left hanging, his teeth buried in his lower lip, blood and spit drizzling down his chin. Robert laughs and groans beside him. Chris glances behind his shoulder. Isolda gallops beside Robert Allgood, Alex Williams slightly behind her. James Barnaby comes up behind them. Jane’s horse runs with them for a while, and then simply speeds off, panicked, to the left. There’s no time to try to wrangle it.

Steven pushes them forward, and they run like the Devil himself is chasing them.

(A raven above them dances in the breeze, and cackles, and through the haze of the pain of his wound, Robert thinks it might as well just be laughing).

* * *

They stop only once that night, and only to tend to Robert’s wound. Robert, who hisses as Alex cautiously pries the bullet out and patches up the wound.

“Bullet’s been probably poisoned.”

“Oh, lovely, I’ve been poisoned, Chris. Isn’t that grand?” Robert says, deadpan, and then hisses when Alex spreads ointment on his wound.

“He’ll need medical attention. Proper one. With antidotes and all. And disinfectants.”

“We can’t stop,” Steven says, marching back in wide strides from the rock spur he was watching the horizon from, “Not until we’re back in the Inner Baronies.”

“Scared we’re being followed?” Chris asks.

“Most certain we are.” Steven says over his shoulder, and then crouches down in front of Bob, “Robert, can thee do this for me?”

“What? Not die?”

“It’ll take us a week at least to reach the first Affiliation settlement.”

Robert laughs, hollowly, “Oh, I know. No worries, Steven, I’ll try and hold on. I’ll let out a little scream before my heart stops. And when it does, do offer my apologies to Louise.”

Steven frowns at him. “Do not be absurd.”

“Thee’s heard young Alex here. The bullet’s been poisoned. Welcome to Cressia, enjoy the treason and do take home some of our lovely poisons!”

Steven presses his lips to his friend’s temple. “See? Thee’s still cracking jokes. Definitely not dying.”

“Steven.” Chris says then, voice low. Steven stands and turns towards him all in the same movement, “Aye?”

“What did it mean? The palaver?”

Steven blinks and then sighs. Behind him, Bob groans in annoyance as Alex wraps his wound in gauze. (This is not the poison that will kill him: it will burn through him, hard and deep and agonising, but the poison that will kill him has not been brewed yet, will not be brewed for another seven years– but Ka always loves to laugh, fickle mistress that she is, and Ka is laughing right now).

“It means war, Chris.” and he gives one last bitter glance towards the direction they came from.

“It most certainly means war.”

**Author's Note:**

> Both Louise (Bob Allgood's wife, briefly mentioned) and Isolda are OCs created by a friend of mine. Everyone else was either made up by me, or by Stephen King. Thanks for reading!


End file.
